What if? An Inquisitor Carrow Omake
by littlewhitecat
Summary: What if Carrow had never left the Charnel Guard, had never entered the Inquisition?


Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-Minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

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Author's Note

I wrote this over a couple of days just to help relieve some of the more rabid plot-bunnies that plague me and it had my beta in stitches...it is just a one shot, I can't see it really going further than this...I mean I can :-D but it would be just outrageous...so anyway enjoy this little snippet while I work on the next Carrow novel...

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Inquisitor Carrow Omake

_What if...Brother Codicier Carrow had never left his chapter, and had never entered the Inquisition?_

He woke in the darkness, his optical receptors flickering back to life as they picked up...a wall? Anonymous cracked plaster painted white, slightly grubby as if it hadn't been washed or repainted in a while, a small black scuff mark in the bottom right-hand corner of his field of vision. Which was all very curious, since the last he remembered, he had been on the wide open plains of Viridian III, a very inappropriately named planet, considering the vegetation tended to be dark purple in colour. He'd pointed this out at length to anyone who would listen, until the most senior tech-marine present, Brother Varsus, had threatened to disable his vox-caster.

He didn't really get on with Brother Tech-Marine Varsus; the man had absolutely no sense of humour, a result he suspected, of some arcane Mechanicus initiation ritual. He'd asked, but...well...he decided not to push things too far. He did always revel in those periods of wakefulness the brother Tech-Marines granted him, now he was entombed for eternity in the glory of a dreadnought chassis. And when he slept, he would dream...of his days as a Brother Librarian of the Charnel Guard, the glorious battles...his brother marines...his long-suffering Codiciers...his hard-won victories...familiar faces all long-gone would crowd his memories, his dreams, admonishing him for some little prank, fighting alongside him...the roar of guns...the smell of cordite and death...the screams...and sometimes, in his dark slumber, he would dream of his childhood, distant and foggy, the cupboard-under-the-stairs, the indifferent family...that strange school...

...but he was getting sidetracked. They'd been cleansing the purple world of Viridian III from the foul stench of the Eldar; that he was very clear about. A discovery of a functional Warp-gate and associated abominable structures had resulted in a full-out invasion of the Xenos filth as they fought to defend the ruins of their degenerate past from purification and summary destruction. He'd been involved of course, as was only right, had been in the thick of it as the Xenos scum had reactivated the warp-gate and retreated.

Looking back it had probably been a silly thing to do, but he had followed them, bellowing prayers of hate against the enemies of Humanity; and that was the last he clearly remembered.

All very peculiar, and it certainly didn't change the fact that this wall was getting intensely dull. He gave his legs an experimental kick, listening to the crashing sounds as he rapidly increased his foot space, but to his frustration, he couldn't get any purchase as he was apparently suspended above the ground; not a good position for a dreadnought to be in. His arms were in an even worse state, pinned tightly in place; he tried flexing his power claw and moving the plasma cannon, but they were quite thoroughly held by the building with which he was surrounded. He snarled in frustration, and twisted as hard as he could. A rending, grinding crack and rumble of falling masonry reverberated through his prison, accompanied by terrified screams but he paid them no mind as he felt himself drop slightly, finally, onto solid ground. He walked forward, ignoring the rain of timbers, bricks and other debris, striding forward into the open air...only to be brought up short.

He stared around in disbelief; this definitely wasn't Viridian III, where the Throne _was_ he? Row after row of small semi-detached dwellings of a type he hadn't seen in centuries stretched out into the distance as far as the eye could see, each on with a little pocket of garden, filled with various plants, little wooden huts, funny glass constructions...he bellowed his fury, ignoring the flurry of lights flicking on in the homes all around him. Where had those filthy xenos scum sent him? He stomped down the side of the ruined dwelling, bricks and other rubble disintegrating into dust under his considerable weight, across a flower bed some thoughtless person had left lying around, and onto a properly surfaced road, the first he'd seen in a very long time. Places tended to be rather battered by the time he got to visit them, it was very annoying...

...and it also looked oddly familiar. Where had he seen this place before? A horrible thought niggled its way forward from the back of his mind, reminding him of a childhood street, of weeding in the sunshine, of children shouting and laughing as they played in the road...this road.

He couldn't have...could he?

There was one way of finding out, he thought, as he strode as quickly as he could to the end of the road, the chains and trophy skulls adorning his chassis clattering with the movement, occasional pieces of rubble falling from where they'd come to rest on top of his chassis. Much to his annoyance, a lump of masonry had lodged firmly in his ceremonial skull rack.

If he was right, there would be a black and white sign...he came to an abrupt halt, servo stabilisers whining and groaning. There it was, carefully trimmed around to protect it from the predatory advances of the hedge behind it...the sign...Privet Drive. He looked around in disbelief; how could this be...and why was it all so small? He slowly walked back, ignoring the sound of distant sirens and the people standing on their driveways, staring at him in fear, awe, disbelief...he was used to such reactions; it was his due as an Astartes of the God-Emperor of mankind, after all.

He came to another groaning halt in front of the ruins of the aspirational little bourgeois habitation unit he'd inadvertently destroyed. Yes, this really was No.4 Privet Drive, or what was left of it anyway, he thought, as he looked at the sad pile of rubble.

On the lawn in front stood three very familiar looking people, shivering in their night attire, (whether this was from shock or cold he wasn't sure,) covered in dust and little bits of rubble, the large corpulent man nursing a gash to the head.

He sidled up to them, oblivious to the nasty muddy furrow he was making in the once pristine garden.

"Hello Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Cousin Dudley," he boomed softly.

The traumatised trio leapt round, staring up at him in wide-eyed disbelief, their shaking even worse. He couldn't help but notice that his cousin was trying to hide behind his mother, the strange boy.

"It is I, your nephew, Harry, returned to you," he continued cheerfully, the sound of his voice reverberating off nearby buildings, causing their windows to vibrate alarmingly in their frames. Under the coating of brick dust and smeared blood, Uncle Vernon began to go a funny shade of purple. Was the man having some sort of attack? Was he manifesting some sort of demonic possession? Should he purge the man now? For the good of Humanity, of course.

Uncle Vernon erupted in a hateful shriek, his moustache bristling in rage. "You nasty little..." he stuttered incoherently, "we were rid of you and your...your..."

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia hissed warningly.

"And now you've come back," the large man began to get into his stride, "and look what you've done!" he snarled. "RUINED!" he screamed, "ruined, everything I've worked for, destroyed...and it's you, always _you,_ who does it, with your filthy unwanted presence," he finished, going a funny curdled colour, as he realised just how many of the neighbours had witnessed his tirade.

He couldn't belief he'd forgotten just what vindictive people they were. Killing them outright would be satisfying, true, but only in the short-term. He looked around. Maybe he could turn his plasma cannon on the ruins of their silly little hab...and then he spotted it...the ground car...his uncle's pride and joy, which had somehow survived the collapse of the hab, without as much as a scratch.

With much deliberation, he went and stood on it, listening in satisfaction to the sad little metal crunches as the flimsy vehicle crushed flat beneath his feet. He shuffled and stamped a bit to get it more comfy before settling, radiating smugness from every rivet of his chassis.

Uncle Vernon turned a peculiar grey colour, looking as if he would burst into tears at any moment. Aunt Petunia did, plopping down on the lawn and burying her face in her hands. Cousin Dudley stared up at him, eyes round and face pale.

A couple of sharp cracking sounds, almost like gun-fire, grabbed his attention as adrenaline flooded his system, preparing him for possible battle. But the distinct ripples in the warp which had accompanied the sounds gave him pause. Were these chaos cultists come to do battle, attracted by his very presence? Things were getting better and better.

He turned in the direction of the disturbance, shuffling a bit on his ground car nest, priming his weapons. The watching people eyed him nervously as sparks began to crackle across his power-claw, wincing at the unearthly whine of the plasma cannon as it awoke.

Much to his acute disappointment, three surprisingly familiar figures sprinted into view, breathing heavily as they came to an abrupt halt from their hasty arrival. He watched in interest as Headmaster Dumbledore and Professors Snape and McGonagall stared in horror at the pile of rubble that was once No.4 Privet Drive.

Slightly disappointed, he deactivated his weapons.

"What the Merlin happened?" Snape asked. "It doesn't look like Death Eaters."

"It looks more like a bomb explosion," McGonagall agreed, "maybe a faulty gas main..."

Headmaster Dumbledore stepped towards the traumatised Dursley family. "Good evening," he smiled politely at them, "if I might have a moment of your time?"

The Dursleys stared at him as if he were mad.

"Did any of you notice what happened here?" The Headmaster continued unfazed by their reaction.

Uncle Vernon raised a shaking finger, and pointed at the monstrous _thing_ which had destroyed his world so utterly. The magical trio turned...and stared up at the fifteen feet tall, vaguely humanoid colossus, gore spattered and hung with chains and skulls, with odd bits of masonry still lodged on its top.

He stared back, watching them with fascination. "Hello, Professor Dumbledore," he rumbled cheerfully, rattling nearby by windows, "it's me...Harry!"

It was at that moment the police arrived...


End file.
